Grapevine Rd > 128 N > School St > 127 N > Singing Beach

Sunday was a hard day. Sometimes our geographic isolation becomes too tangible for our hearts. In all, we are missing vital life-transitions in the lives of dear loved ones. We grieved together in silence for some time. This did not suffice, and the melody of Singing Beach was needed for additional comfort.Twelve minutes later, we emerged on the frozen sands of Manchester's beach. It was 5'o'clock and the sun was still fighting against the gloom of clouds filled with ice. The snow kept to itself, isolated in divots of sand. I snapped some pictures and we fell into our usual beach-gait (this time, sans coffee). The wind swept our faces, eliminating any speech that would have escaped our lips. Nature kept us silent. The sky was so eerily calming and yet isolating as we contemplated the expanse separating us from family and friends. We traversed the sands, periodically asking what the other person was thinking, and then offering limited responses. I stepped into smaller footsteps frozen from a fellow beach sojourner, with paw-prints dancing in and out. As I set into a persistent pace, I thought about the rhythmic and difficult submission of the self through the celebration of Lent. How isolation practiced with temperance inevitably brings nearness to a crucified Messiah.
The snow started to fall. Fast. Yet the sun remained, with its dependable tenacity. The flakes whipped my face and quickly made a speckled spectacle of my thick black coat. I thought of turning back, but my pace continued to match Sarah's. As soon as the frigid onslaught began, it was over. Oh how we wished for an abrupt end to our heartache as well. I admired the cold and naked fingers of the New England treetops and how they continued to reach heavenward, in urgent expectation for the glorious clothing of Spring.

Sometimes we hurt and all we can do is keep a persistent pace.